Selected Poems

by Byron

  The lightnings of the waters flash

  630

  In awful whiteness o’er the shore,

  That shines and shakes beneath the roar;

  Thus – as the stream and ocean greet,

  With waves that madden as they meet –

  Thus join the bands, whom mutual wrong,

  635

  And fate, and fury, drive along.

  The bickering sabres’ shivering jar;

  And pealing wide or ringing near

  Its echoes on the throbbing ear,

  The deathshot hissing from afar;

  640

  The shock, the shout, the groan of war,

  Reverberate along that vale,

  More suited to the shepherd’s tale:

  Though few the numbers – theirs the strife,

  That neither spares nor speaks for life!

  645

  Ah! fondly youthful hearts can press,

  To seize and share the dear caress:

  But Love itself could never pant

  For all that Beauty sighs to grant

  With half the fervour Hate bestows

  650

  Upon the last embrace of foes,

  When grappling in the fight they fold

  Those arms that ne’er shall lose their hold:

  Friends meet to part; Love laughs at faith;

  True foes, once met, are join’d till death!

  *

  655

  With sabre shiver’d to the hilt,

  Yet dripping with the blood he spilt;

  Yet strain’d within the sever’d hand

  Which quivers round that faithless brand;

  His turban far behind him roll’d,

  660

  And cleft in twain its firmest fold;

  His flowing robe by falchion torn,

  And crimson as those clouds of morn

  That, streak’d with dusky red, portend

  The day shall have a stormy end;

  665

  A stain on every bush that bore

  A fragment of his palampore,1

  His breast with wounds unnumber’d riven,

  His back to earth, his face to heaven,

  Fall’n Hassan lies – his unclosed eye

  670

  Yet lowering on his enemy,

  As if the hour that seal’d his fate

  Surviving left his quenchless hate;

  And o’er him bends that foe with brow

  As dark as his that bled below. –

  *****

  675

  ‘Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave,

  But his shall be a redder grave;

  Her spirit pointed well the steel

  Which taught that felon heart to feel.

  He call’d the Prophet, but his power

  680

  Was vain against the vengeful Giaour:

  He call’d on Alla - but the word

  Arose unheeded or unheard.

  Thou Paynim fool! could Leila’s prayer

  Be pass’d, and thine accorded there?

  685

  I watch’d my time, I leagued with these,

  The traitor in his turn to seize;

  My wrath is wreak’d, the deed is done,

  And now I go – but go alone.’

  *

  *

  The browsing camels’ bells are tinkling:

  690

  His Mother look’d from her lattice high,

  She saw the dews of eve besprinkling

  The pasture green beneath her eye,

  She saw the planets faintly twinkling:

  ‘’ ‘Tis twilight – sure his train is nigh.’

  695

  She could not rest in the garden-bower,

  But gazed through the grate of his steepest tower:

  ‘Why comes he not? his steeds are fleet,

  Nor shrink they from the summer heat;

  Why sends not the Bridegroom his promised gift:

  700

  Is his heart more cold, or his barb less swift?

  Oh, false reproach! yon Tartar now

  Has gain’d our nearest mountain’s brow,

  And warily the steep descends,

  And now within the valley bends;

  705

  And he bears the gift at his saddle bow –

  How could I deem his courser slow?

  Right well my largess shall repay

  His welcome speed, and weary way.’

  The Tartar lighted at the gate,

  710

  But scarce upheld his fainting weight:

  His swarthy visage spake distress,

  But this might be from weariness;

  His garb with sanguine spots was dyed,

  But these might be from his courser’s side;

  715

  He drew the token from his vest –

  Angel of Death! ’tis Hassan’s cloven crest!

  His calpac1 rent – his caftan red –

  ‘Lady, a fearful bride thy Son hath wed:

  Me, not from mercy, did they spare,

  720

  But this empurpled pledge to bear.

  Peace to the brave! whose blood is spilt;

  Woe to the Giaour! for his the guilt.’

  *

  A turban1 carved in coarsest stone,

  A pillar with rank weeds o’ergrown,

  725

  Whereon can now be scarcely read

  The Koran verse that mourns the dead,

  Point out the spot where Hassan fell

  A victim in that lonely dell.

  There sleeps as true an Osmanlie

  730

  As e’er at Mecca bent the knee;

  As ever scorn’d forbidden wine,

  Or pray’d with face towards the shrine,

  In orisons resumed anew

  At solemn sound of ‘Alla Hu!’2

  735

  Yet died he by a stranger’s hand,

  And stranger in his native land;

  Yet died he as in arms he stood,

  And unavenged, at least in blood.

  But him the maids of Paradise

  740

  Impatient to their halls invite,

  And the dark Heaven of Houris’ eyes

  On him shall glance for ever bright;

  They come – their kerchiefs green they wave,3

  And welcome with a kiss the brave!

  745

  Who falls in battle ‘gainst a Giaour

  Is worthiest an immortal bower.

  *

  But thou, false Infidel! shalt writhe

  Beneath avenging Monkir’s4 scythe;

  And from its torment ’scape alone

  750

  To wander round lost Eblis’1 throne;

  And fire unquench’d, unquenchable,

  Around, within, thy heart shall dwell;

  No ear can hear nor tongue can tell

  The tortures of that inward hell!

  755

  But first, on earth as vampire2 sent,

  Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent:

  Then ghastly haunt thy native place,

  And suck the blood of all thy race;

  There from thy daughter, sister, wife,

  760

  At midnight drain the stream of life;

  Yet loathe the banquet which perforce

  Must feed thy livid living corse:

  Thy victims ere they yet expire

  Shall know the demon for their sire,

  765

  As cursing thee, thou cursing them,

  Thy flowers are wither’d on the stem.

  But one that for thy crime must fall,

  The youngest, most beloved of all,

  Shall bless thee with a father’s name -

  770

  That word shall wrap thy heart in flame!

  Yet must thou end thy task, and mark

  Her cheek’s last tinge, her eye’s last spark,

  And the last glassy glance mus
t view

  Which freezes o’er its lifeless blue;

  775

  Then with unhallow’d hand shall tear

  The tresses of her yellow hair,

  Of which in life a lock when shorn

  Affection’s fondest pledge was worn;

  But now is borne away by thee,

  780

  Memorial of thine agony!

  Wet with thine own best blood shall drip1

  Thy gnashing tooth and haggard lip;

  Then stalking to thy sullen grave,

  Go – and with Gouls and Afrits rave;

  785

  Till these in horror shrink away

  From spectre more accursed than they!

  *

  ‘How name ye yon lone Caloyer?

  His features I have scann’d before

  In mine own land: ’tis many a year,

  790

  Since, dashing by the lonely shore,

  I saw him urge as fleet a steed

  As ever served a horseman’s need.

  But once I saw that face, yet then

  It was so mark’d with inward pain,

  795

  I could not pass it by again;

  It breathes the same dark spirit now,

  As death were stamp’d upon his brow.

  ‘’Tis twice three years at summer tide

  Since first among our freres he came;

  800

  And here it soothes him to abide

  For some dark deed he will not name.

  But never at our vesper prayer,

  Nor e’er before confession chair

  Kneels he, nor recks he when arise

  805

  Incense or anthem to the skies,

  But broods within his cell alone,

  His faith and race alike unknown.

  The sea from Paynim land he crost,

  And here ascended from the coast;

  810

  Yet seems he not of Othman race,

  But only Christian in his face:

  I’d judge him some stray renegade,

  Repentant of the change he made,

  Save that he shuns our holy shrine,

  815

  Nor tastes the sacred bread and wine.

  Great largess to these walls he brought,

  And thus our abbot’s favour bought;

  But were I Prior, not a day

  Should brook such stranger’s further stay,

  820

  Or pent within our penance cell

  Should doom him there for aye to dwell.

  Much in his visions mutters he

  Of maiden whelm’d beneath the sea;

  Of sabres clashing, foemen flying,

  825

  Wrong avenged, and Moslem dying.

  On cliff he hath been known to stand,

  And rave as to some bloody hand

  Fresh sever’d from its parent limb,

  Invisible to all but him,

  830

  Which beckons onward to his grave,

  And lures to leap into the wave.’

  *

  *

  Dark and unearthly is the scowl

  That glares beneath his dusky cowl:

  The flash of that dilating eye

  835

  Reveals too much of times gone by;

  Though varying, indistinct its hue,

  Oft will his glance the gazer rue,

  For in it lurks that nameless spell,

  Which speaks, itself unspeakable,

  840

  A spirit yet unquell’d and high,

  That claims and keeps ascendency;

  And like the bird whose pinions quake,

  But cannot fly the gazing snake,

  Will others quail beneath his look,

  845

  Nor ‘scape the glance they scarce can brook.

  From him the half-affrighted Friar

  When met alone would fain retire,

  As if that eye and bitter smile

  Transferr’d to others fear and guile:

  850

  Not oft to smile descendeth he,

  And when he doth ’tis sad to see

  That he but mocks at Misery.

  How that pale lip will curl and quiver!

  Then fix once more as if for ever;

  855

  As if his sorrow or disdain

  Forbade him e’er to smile again.

  Well were it so - such ghastly mirth

  From joyaunce ne’er derived its birth.

  But sadder still it were to trace

  860

  What once were feelings in that face:

  Time hath not yet the features fix’d,

  But brighter traits with evil mix’d;

  And there are hues not always faded,

  Which speak a mind not all degraded

  865

  Even by the crimes through which it waded:

  The common crowd but see the gloom

  Of wayward deeds, and fitting doom;

  The close observer can espy

  A noble soul, and lineage high:

  870

  Alas! though both bestow’d in vain,

  Which Grief could change, and Guilt could stain,

  It was no vulgar tenement

  To which such lofty gifts were lent,

  And still with little less than dread

  875

  On such the sight is riveted.

  The roofless cot, decay’d and rent,

  Will scarce delay the passer by;

  The tower by war or tempest bent,

  While yet may frown one battlement,

  880

  Demands and daunts the stranger’s eye;

  Each ivied arch, and pillar lone,

  Pleads haughtily for glories gone!

  ‘His floating robe around him folding,

  Slow sweeps he through the column’d aisle;

  885

  With dread beheld, with gloom beholding

  The rites that sanctify the pile.

  But when the anthem shakes the choir,

  And kneel the monks, his steps retire;

  By yonder lone and wavering torch

  890

  His aspect glares within the porch;

  There will be pause till all is done –

  And hear the prayer, but utter none.

  See – by the half-illumined wall

  His hood fly back, his dark hair fall,

  895

  That pale brow wildly wreathing round,

  As if the Gorgon there had bound

  The sablest of the serpent-braid

  That o’er her fearful forehead stray’d:

  For he declines the convent oath,

  900

  And leaves those locks unhallow’d growth,

  But wears our garb in all beside;

  And, not from piety but pride,

  Gives wealth to walls that never heard

  Of his one holy vow nor word.

  905

  Lo! – mark ye, as the harmony

  Peals louder praises to the sky,

  That livid cheek, that stony air

  Of mix’d defiance and despair!

  Saint Francis, keep him from the shrine!

  910

  Else may we dread the wrath divine

  Made manifest by awful sign.

  If ever evil angel bore

  The form of mortal, such he wore:

  By all my hope of sins forgiven,

  915

  Such looks are not of earth nor heaven!’

  To love the softest hearts are prone,

  But such can ne’er be all his own;

  Too timid in his woes to share,

  Too meek to meet, or brave despair;

  920

  And sterner hearts alone may feel

  The wound that time can never heal.

  The rugged metal of the mine

  Must burn before its surface shine,

  But plunged within the furnace-f
lame,

  925

  It bends and melts – though still the same;

  Then temper’d to thy want, or will,

  ‘Twill serve thee to defend or kill;

  A breast-plate for thine hour of need,

  Or blade to bid thy foeman bleed;

  930

  But if a dagger’s form it bear,

  Let those who shape its edge, beware!

  Thus passion’s fire, and woman’s art,

  Can turn and tame the sterner heart;

  From these its form and tone are ta’en,

  935

  And what they make it, must remain,

  But break – before it bend again.

  *

  *

  If solitude succeed to grief,

  Release from pain is slight relief;

  The vacant bosom’s wilderness

  940

  Might thank the pang that made it less.

  We loathe what none are left to share:

  Even bliss – ’t were woe alone to bear;

  The heart once left thus desolate

  Must fly at last for ease – to hate.

  945

  It is as if the dead could feel

  The icy worm around them steal,

  And shudder, as the reptiles creep

  To revel o’er their rotting sleep,

  Without the power to scare away

  950

  The cold consumers of their clay!

  It is as if the desert-bird,1

  Whose beak unlocks her bosom’s stream

  To still her famish’d nestlings’ scream,

  Nor mourns a life to them transferr’d,

  955

  Should rend her rash devoted breast,

  And find them flown her empty nest.

  The keenest pangs the wretched find

  Are rapture to the dreary void,

  The leafless desert of the mind,

  960

  The waste of feelings unemploy’d.

  Who would be doom’d to gaze upon

  A sky without a cloud or sun?

  Less hideous far the tempest’s roar

  Than ne’er to brave the billows more -

  965

  Thrown, when the war of winds is o’er,

  A lonely wreck on fortune’s shore,

  ‘Mid sullen calm, and silent bay,

  Unseen to drop by dull decay; –

  Better to sink beneath the shock

  970

  Than moulder piecemeal on the rock!

  *

  ‘Father! thy days have pass’d in peace,

  ‘Mid counted beads, and countless prayer;

  To bid the sins of others cease,

  Thyself without a crime or care,

  975

  Save transient ills that all must bear,

  Has been thy lot from youth to age;

  And thou wilt bless thee from the rage

  Of passions fierce and uncontroll’d,

  Such as thy penitents unfold,

  980

  Whose secret sins and sorrows rest

  Within thy pure and pitying breast.

  My days, though few, have pass’d below

  In much of joy, but more of woe;

  Yet still in hours of love or strife,

  985

  I’ve ’scaped the weariness of life: